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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759974">Cola de Golondrina</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_live_in_a_Society/pseuds/We_live_in_a_Society'>We_live_in_a_Society</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Surrealities [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Development, Character Study, Cheating, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Films, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Music, Misogyny, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Red (Color), Smut, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000, Wordcount: Under 100.000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:26:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759974</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_live_in_a_Society/pseuds/We_live_in_a_Society</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>World is an empty place.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Female Character/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Surrealities [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cola de Golondrina</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Funerals are weird. </p>
<p>And more or less, grandpa has been acting weird the whole afternoon.</p>
<p>In one hand it is totally understandable, since his wife is dead and her burial was just a few hours ago, but there is something else about his behavior, something odd, something that truly concerns her. During the ceremony itself, she got the impression as if he was not accompanying them, as if he was somewhere far, far away, lost in his own thoughts – his body ever present but soul – right the opposite.</p>
<p>When it comes to her grandpa, he is an incredibly stern, ambitious person, living according to the set of rules made up by whoever was fucked up enough to create anything of that sort, according to the needs of whoever was fucked up enough to actually follow them. His smile is one of the rarest sights ever encountered, not because of the dental aspect, but because he rarely feels like it is necessary, to flash anything more than a bitter smirk, since ‘it may ruin his image’. </p>
<p>Aside from that, he always wears a suit, but not the basic kind, only the expensive, fancy one. She literally never got a chance to see him in a different kind of clothing, which only adds something more professional to his exterior as if he was not professional enough, as if the neatly slicked-back hair, surprisingly thick considering his seventy years, was not enough. </p>
<p>But when is it ever enough for such an overachiever her grandpa is? </p>
<p>In all honesty, she has never viewed him as a typical kind of grandpa – the one who would read stories to his grandkids, who would build them a treehouse, who would go fishing with his neighbors. No, he was far from it. But instead of that, he is renown from his work skills, the way he always cracks any case – at least according to what he tells others, but it does not seem to lay too far from the truth. Otherwise people would not be hiring him for such ridiculously high amounts of money.</p>
<p>“You loved her, didn’t you?” She asks softly, enlacing their arms together, as they mindlessly stare at the marble gravestone. “I mean, I guess I can’t imagine how it feels, to lose someone you spent so many years with. Maybe you should at least consider taking a break from work.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous, child. The defendants won’t guilt themselves,” he huffs, already getting impatient. How can she be so short-sighted? Ah yes, youth defines itself by the very unique set of principles, not that he understands them anymore. It seems like he is well-aware of their existence, but not really to the point where he knows what they truly mean, beyond that.</p>
<p>“But-”</p>
<p>“And grieve is a waste of time,” he states with a careless brow raise.</p>
<p>“So you are just planning to move on, forgetting that it ever happened at all?” She questions again. “If you really loved her, I feel like you should sort of, I don’t know, think of it as a tribute.”</p>
<p>“If I really loved her,” he snorts mockingly. “Think of it as a tribute.”</p>
<p>“Jeez, give me a break,” she sighs, clearly getting fed up with his bitter attitude. “Why do you always have to be such a jerk about everything?”</p>
<p>“Because being a jerk gets you further than being a non-jerk.”</p>
<p>“So what?” She dwells on further. “You’re trying to say you never loved her?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“In fact, this is true. I don’t think I ever loved her,” he avows bitterly, catching her out of guard for more than a brief moment. “Don’t look so surprised. She was a good woman, my best friend actually, but I never loved her. Why should I?”</p>
<p>“Because you were married to her?” She implies sarcastically.</p>
<p>“Darling,” he flashes her a pitiful, patronizing smile that she hates more than anything. “It’s not that simple.”</p>
<p>“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes, starting to regret even bringing up the subject in the first place. “Were you ever in love with anyone then?”</p>
<p>Her question is followed by a few minutes of perfect silence with only a few birds chanting in the distance, and when it occurs to her how unlikely it is to gain such an answer from him, he speaks again.</p>
<p>“I think that maybe, just maybe, I was in love once.”</p>
<p>She gasps as soon as she hears his unforeseen confession, her eyes igniting with that kind of childish excitement that infuriates him more than anything.</p>
<p>“What happened?”</p>
<p>He chuckles bitterly at the foolish question. How come a girl her age cannot figure it out on her own truly lays beyond his understanding.</p>
<p>“I wasted my chance, that’s what happened.”</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>The scent of freshly made coffee stirred within his nostrils, enveloping him pleasantly, at least as pleasantly as it could, considering the fact that it is six in the morning.</p>
<p>Although he would be lying, if he said he never liked to get up early for work, he indeed has never been able to find the process itself appealing, but has always considered it as the essential part of the play – some sort of a compromise he is forced to lean into, if he wants to drive to his love of beloved law firm.</p>
<p>Since he was a kid, he has had the need to possess, to earn money and buy the things that create his flawless image, that make him appear as a certain kind of man in the eyes of others. He will never admit it, but he spends enormous amounts of money on all these tailor-made suits, at least according to Jane, but it is not like he cannot afford them. He has too much money anyway, and nothing fancy to spend it on, nothing fancy except for the suits – nothing too quirky, just an attempt to look more like a well-dressed lawyer than a badly-dressed lawyer. </p>
<p>“Chester invited me to dinner tonight,” he announces between the two cautious sips of coffee. “Would you like to come with me?”</p>
<p>“You know we’re not very fond of each other,” she smiles apologetically. “I don’t like him, I really don’t. I’m sorry, darling.”</p>
<p>“It’s an important meeting,” he adds, although he knows that in this case even reasoning will get him nowhere. </p>
<p>“I know, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes once more – a slightly annoying habit of hers, but he is well aware of the fact that it comes from the need to make others feel better, even if she refuses, and to suppress any discomfort the act causes.</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” he shrugs, although he knows it will not stifle her guilt. </p>
<p>Because the guilt has to stifle itself.</p>
<p>“I’ll just go alone then,” he reassures with a forced smile plastered to his lips. Maybe her absence will only turn out for the better, since she will not have to listen to Chester’s remarks all evening. “Don’t expect me till late.”</p>
<p>Before she gets a chance to apologize once more, he gets up, desperate to avoid any more excuses. He kisses her cheek as he goes and leaves the empty cup in the sink – his last attempts to remain a decent husband.</p>
<p>“Have a nice day, darling,” he greets from the hall, not really paying attention to her response, already deep in his thoughts about the job.</p>
<p>And has he ever loved his job…</p>
<p>As far as he can remember, he has treated the law firm as a prove that he falls into the category created for successful men, successful enough to maintain their prestige titles throughout the years. He takes pride in that, in the fact that he is still the best, renown due to his experience and professionalism, renown due to his hard work. </p>
<p>Little he knows, today’s car ride is meant to lead him towards an inevitable end.</p>
<p>His inevitable end.</p>
<p>But he is yet to realize that.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Candice moans softly as the late morning sunlight tickles her closed eyelids as if trying to force them open, to force her to greet the brand new day.</p>
<p>As if she even wanted to do that.</p>
<p>There is no such thing that she hates more than getting up in the mornings. Or maybe she hates her father more, even though she is hesitant whether he is supposed to be classified as a thing, or is it supposed to be any of her concern where he fits in the end?</p>
<p>It probably shouldn’t, she thinks as she carefully untangles the man’s arm from around her waist, getting up as quietly and as quickly as she can, setting the former one as her top priority for now. She collects her clothes, deciding to ditch the panties, since he will probably keep them for whatever reasons, and she does not have time to dwell upon where to find her lingerie. Also, it will not be considered as the worst thing that has ever happened to her – a twenty minute long car ride without underwear – she managed much worse before.</p>
<p>The tsk sound coming from behind makes her flinch, immediately reshuffling the Order of Greater Importance – quick above quiet. </p>
<p>“Where do you think you’re going?”</p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>“Wherever that isn’t here,” she back talks smoothly, topping it with a bitter smile. “And I’d much appreciate if you let me out. I’m running late.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you think it’s kind of rude to leave like this?” He questions, raising a single judging eyebrow at her.</p>
<p>Well, seems like he is one of those guys.</p>
<p>“Don’t you think it’s kind of illegal to keep people in the place of your choice against their own will?” She mocks, silently hoping it would be enough to break him.</p>
<p>“Unless they’re together as a couple,” he shrugs, feeling beyond ludicrous to be forced to explain such an obvious thing to her. If her level of stupidity is really that high, then maybe he should break up with her?</p>
<p>“I don’t think so, honey,” she brushes off his reasoning, too poor to be even considered as such. “Now let me out.”</p>
<p>“Is it your way to break up with me?” He frowns, truly puzzled with her changing attitudes. His father used to warn him about women – they are sly and sinful creatures that lead good and decent men on the wrong path.</p>
<p>“Take it however you want,” she rolls her eyes dismissively, somehow amazed with how closeminded a man can be, and somehow amazed with how she could even find him attractive last night. Maybe the reason was tequila, or whatever she decided to drink, since it probably was not just the tequila. “But let me out.”</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>The bitter taste of a cold coffee settles upon his tongue, the clearest evidence of her unhuman incompetence. How had she even managed to cool down his coffee before it was served on the desk? Had she been waiting until the beverage’s temperature fell to serve it? Is it how she spends her working hours every day – cooling down his coffee? To be honest, the positive answer would not be much of a surprise.</p>
<p>His secretary is the most useless person he has ever met. Sometimes he wonders whether she is aware of her existence that reaches beyond the critical point of her polished nails, or whether the critical point of her polished nails is equal with the critical point of her existence.</p>
<p>“Jesus Fucking Christ!” He exclaims in disbelief, after almost spitting the contents of his mouth back into the cup. “It’s fucking salty! The coffee is fucking salty! What the fuck is wrong with you?! You added fucking salt to my fucking coffee!”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry sir,” she adverts her gaze, bashfully eyeing her bubblegum nails.</p>
<p>“I bet you are,” he nods with a mocking smile enlightening his handsome but cold features. “Now tell me, what do they teach you wherever the fuck they make secretaries like you? To salt my fucking coffee? That has to be the second most disrespectful thing that has ever happened to me, since the first was recruiting you as an employee.” </p>
<p>“Sir I-” she tries interrupting him, but her effort remains unnoticed by him, lost in his own rage, rage caused by a single cup of salted coffee.</p>
<p>“To be honest I pity your parents, I pity them to have such a failure of a child. I mean, I would’ve fucking slit my throat open, if I were them-”</p>
<p>“There’s no need to get personal,” she interrupts once more, this time successfully as if to remain the world’s ever present rule of balance.</p>
<p>“There is, because you salted my fucking coffee,” he rubs his aching temples – a gesture she has seen him perform more than once during any heated argument with a client. “You know what, I fire you! I fucking fire you, and I want you to be gone in fifteen minutes, I don’t care how, I don’t care where you go, just get out of my fucking sight.”</p>
<p>“You’re the worst boss I’ve ever had!” She fusses childishly, much to his amusement.</p>
<p>“Probably the only one who made the mistake of hiring you,” he tops his speech with another bitter remark, silently hoping she will leave without throwing a tantrum, since his head is truly killing him.</p>
<p>My God, he really is getting too old for this. </p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>“You need to get your shit together,” she sighs, her gaze fixated on the brownie crumbs for a few seconds. “I mean it, Madelaine. How long do you think you can keep doing this?”</p>
<p>“As long as necessary,” she sighs, combing the tickling strands out of her face in a nervous manner. “I was working so hard to get this job, and I won’t be able to pay the bills if I drop out.”</p>
<p>“You have any leftover respect for yourself?” Candice shakes her head in disbelief. “Why you let him treat you like this?”</p>
<p>“Why are you so rude when it comes to him? He’s your father. You should be grateful for what he does, and all you do is talking behind his back.” </p>
<p>“So I’m not allowed to tell the truth about my family members just because we’re fucking related?” she raises her voice, just enough to make the woman in front of her tense but not enough to attract anyone else’s attention yet. Despite the morning situation and all of the past ones, she still remains somehow amazed with how closeminded a person can be.</p>
<p>“Sometimes I wonder if you do this just to make me drop out and take my place,” she sighs carelessly on the surface, but aiming for another drama deep down. If she was honest, she would admit Madelaine is willing to do anything to cause a good drama as if it made a proper substitute for food in her case. </p>
<p>“What-the-fuck-ever, Madelaine,” she shrugs, not wanting to give her even the slightest taste of satisfaction. “Seems like you’re qualified enough to make your own stupid decisions.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me?” She exclaims with a slight raise of her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. Of course, Chester’s secretary has to keep a flawless appearance.</p>
<p>“You heard me, so I don’t think there’s a need to repeat myself,” she huffs, another bitter smirk already threatening to mark her reddish lips. “By the way, I also happen to wonder sometimes. I wonder if you’re trying to befriend me in order to keep your job.”</p>
<p>“Of course not,” she chuckles nervously as if her previous words have not given the game anyway. “I’m sorry, Candy. </p>
<p>(don’t fucking call me Candy)	</p>
<p>I know I might seem rude sometimes, but I’m just trying to be honest with you. You know, like friends are, and… I’m just so, so sorry, I really am.”</p>
<p>As she speaks, Candice can only sigh helplessly, grazing at her with pity, before asking one last question – the one that is supposed to make her wonder.</p>
<p> “Are you familiar with the term of a golden cage?”</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Slowly, maybe even hesitantly, the man untangles a simple red tie from around his neck, lying it on the pearly bathroom stall. For a moment he is mesmerized by the way it reflects the fluorescent light, its cool tone illuminating his cheekbones, giving him the sinister look he often obtains in this particular gleam.</p>
<p>Douglas can be classified as the lucky bearer of this particular kind of cold charm, the one that allowed him to attract some of the college girls since the broadcast of An Evening with Fred Astaire. What a stupid fucking show, he used to think, but since he learned how much Jane loves it he somehow found the will to tolerate it as the essential part of his married life. Although it used to be the last thing occupying his mind back then – if the show was stupid or bearable – throughout his college years he also learned that a lot of things change when you form any kind of relationship with someone.</p>
<p>There are days when he really misses college, and today seems to fall into the catalog created especially for all of these days. He was the Man back then, not the Lawyer Man, but just the Man and sometimes he feels like he went back in the terms of self-improvement, instead of forward like he is supposed to, by adding the L-title. Now he is the Lawyer Man but also the Lawyer Man amongst other Lawyer Men, and back then he was the Man of His Campus, although at some levels he had to share this title. It seemed like he reached the end of eternity, the point where our reality curves so much that it feels like you stand in the final point of your life, the point where you are immune to any charms expect for the Suspension and the Expulsion.</p>
<p>But what is the threat of a flimsy suspension and a pathetic expulsion for the young, ambitious, and soon-to-be-a-lawyer man?<br/>As much as the concept of Roman Law for any secretary he has ever employed.</p>
<p>One day he realized that it was not the final point of his life, that there was a curve he had not noticed before, the curve that has led him to another part of his confined reality, the part where he owns a law firm and is married to Jane – a woman who absolutely adores An Evening with Fred Astaire. As a matter of fact, he will never admit that throughout all these years he has grown to undoubtedly enjoy any re-watch of An Evening with Fred Astaire. </p>
<p>In the course of our lives we come across these moments that can be addressed as the Turn – a critical point of our lives, a gate to an entirely new place. In his case that moment was when he watched An Evening with Fred Astaire for the first time, accompanied by his yet-to-be wife, when he realized he wanted to marry her, not that he would but that he was willing to. Maybe not propose to her in that specific moment when the host said: “We’re gonna get together on the show before the evening’s over”, but somewhere in the future, when they would both graduate, find stable jobs, or whatsoever.</p>
<p>But back then the only thing occupying his mind was the soft piano tune of ‘Man with the Blues’.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Slowly, maybe even hesitantly, the woman applies a thin line of jet black eyeliner, double checking if it looks even, comparing to her first attempt. For a moment she is mesmerized by the perfection of a black curve, the way it makes her sapphire irises stand out on the pale canvas of her face.</p>
<p>Candice can be classified as the lucky bearer of this amazing ability to make anything she decides to pull on herself look decent. It does not matter whether she shaves the sides of her head, applies some weird cheap lipstick, or changes into these old sweatpants she has had since the release of Sudden Impact – a movie Chester loves more than his own daughter. She has no idea why he has chosen this particular one to endow with the title of ‘his favorite movie’, and yet she needs to accept the way things are – Chester prefers Sudden Impact above her.</p>
<p>Actually Chester prefers a lot of thing above her, Sudden Impact making just one of them.</p>
<p>Sometimes, when she is unable to sleep at night, her thoughts drift back to the movie’s implications. There surely is something misogynistic about Harry Callahan, which is probably why Chester esteems him so much. By any means, she is not implying that the policeman is a chauvinist in general – shout out to The Enforcer – but he has that small dose of sexist attitude, or maybe this is just misanthropy, but he still reminds her of Chester under specific circumstances.</p>
<p>There are other times when she seems to associate herself with Harry Callahan, but the truth is that if you are resolved enough, you can find a connection between any character and yourself. It is simply because all of them are created to visualize some of the social attitudes, tendencies, or motives (not a good choice of words considering she is thinking about a mostly homicide cop but whatsoever), but it does not change the fact that she is aware of the correlation between her and the inspector.</p>
<p>First connection that comes to mind is the assumption about ketchup and hot dogs, or at least what lays beyond garnishing your sausage with ketchup – the act that is considered to be sickening in its sinful form. During one of the sleepless nights she came to the conclusion that it might refer to the process of maturing, but everyone laughs at her when she states it, forcing her to turn it into a joke attempt. The question that causes them to silence and then erupt in one of those silly giggles goes something like this: aren’t adults supposed to search for more sophisticated sensations than the sweetish taste of ketchup on their tongue?</p>
<p>Or maybe Harry Callahan just hates ketchup.</p>
<p>Another aspect, not the last one but the only one that is worth mentioning while she is unremittingly trying to iron her dress with a hair straightener</p>
<p>(is it even supposed to be ironed?),</p>
<p>is surprisingly a quote, not as iconic as the punk one but still important enough to bother her in its rough form. First of all because the chances of it being the last sentence she bestowed Chester with are quite high, and second of all because it seems to define her life attitude – “Go ahead, make my day”.</p>
<p>She has always enjoyed to challenge people, to see if they are confident enough to repeat any mean remark that slips past their lips – a prove most of them treat it as a way to vent of any negative emotions. If they restate it, they become special for her, at least some sort of special, not enough to like them yet, but enough to memorize them as people who had the balls to admit what was on their minds and not be afraid of it, afraid of who they are underneath all of those professional façades.</p>
<p>It is a rare trait – a white raven amongst its black kinsmen.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Knock.</p>
<p>She opens the door as if a confident knock was a command, which it is in some sort of a way, revealing tonight’s guest – Chester’s love of beloved associate who probably, at least according to her speculations, is not very fond of him, although he stays in touch. It is most likely a money thing anyway, but she is still somehow surprised to see him. It has been quite a while since they saw each other for the last time, and it feels kind of odd to have him glaring at you from the doorway.</p>
<p>It feels out of place, or Out Of Time as someone once said.</p>
<p>“Candice,” he flashes her a small smirk, just barely lifting the lip corners as if he treats it more like a suggestion than an actual act of smiling.</p>
<p>Last time they met, a good ten years back, Candice was a teenager – a sassy yet somehow charming girl, who was nice to talk to from time to time. By the way she used to carry her looks, he could easily tell she was just about to blossom into a beautiful woman, but never shared his remarks with her, since compliments, especially connected with her physical appearance, seemed to infuriate her for whatever reasons.</p>
<p>Although he was positive about any of his conclusions, the sight of her standing in the doorway, as if to prove he was not mistaken about a single detail, somehow interrupts his train of thoughts.</p>
<p>She looks divine.</p>
<p>And on contrary he looks married.</p>
<p>“Mister McConnell,” she mimics his expression, and steps out of the way, inviting him in. “Long time, no see. Isn’t it what they say?”</p>
<p>“It can be if you put it this way,” he shrugs, somehow glad that she is the one who greeted him tonight, not Chester. He is pretty sure he would implode, if Chester’s voice was the first he was meant to hear.</p>
<p>Candice could say a lot of things about Douglas, but since they have not seen each other for quite a while, she is diffident about their topicality, so she lets them slide by, focusing just on the appearance.</p>
<p>First thing she notices about the aforementioned aspect of the proud man in front of her are his eyes. If eyes are the windows of the soul – is it not what they say? – than he has the coldest set of eyes she has ever came across, the icy irises staring at her as if they were poking her spirit in a way that can only be described as an odd cause of her fascination and fear. </p>
<p>The second thing she notices is the fact that he is wearing a tailor-made suit – perfectly fitted piece of some expensive fabric – but has decided to skip the tie.<br/>Who the fuck spends his money on tailor-made suits?</p>
<p>No one, at least no one in her circle of friends.</p>
<p>Then maybe it is just the lawyer thing.</p>
<p>“Tell me, Mister McConnell, if I get the wrong impression, but I feel like the suit is only meant to make you appear as someone more sophisticated, not that you actually need it.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me?” He looks at her with astonishment, blinking a few times.</p>
<p>“You’ve heard me,” she cocks a single eyebrow at him, waiting for his answer.</p>
<p>“No,” he smirks bitterly. “I don’t think I got it right. Say it again.”</p>
<p>“I said that in my opinion you wear those tailor-made suits to appear as someone more professional, elegant, or richer maybe, not that you couldn’t get away with a regular one,” she repeats, much to his annoyance. He expected her to back off, to apologize, or to brush it off, pretending as if it never happened, but she did not.</p>
<p>She surprised him.</p>
<p>“I hate to disappoint you, but come to think of it, I have this constant burning need to have them in my life,” he demurs, giving her his best patronizing look as if attempting to show her how silly it was to even consider going against him like this.</p>
<p>“Do you now?” She inquires in a rather rhetorical manner, before finally gesturing him to follow her down the corridor all the way to the elegant dining area.</p>
<p>The place itself has not change much since his last visit as if it was meant to become some sort of a contrasting factor for Candice. The mahogany table is still where it used to be back in the days, sprawling across the floor, giving him the impression as if one day it will push away any other expensive pieces of furniture just to take their place. Whereas, the upholstered chairs still surround it as if their only life goal was to be decent servants to the table.</p>
<p>“And who’s that man?” His jovial tone cuts through the previous comparative silence, almost making him roll his eyes at the silly welcoming. “Doug, it’s so great to see you!”</p>
<p>“And vice versa,” he replies – a mere, futile attempt to sound polite.</p>
<p>“C’mon, take a sit. We were just about to serve.”</p>
<p>He can give one thing to Chester – he has the most comfortable set of chairs he has ever had a chance to sit on, but little does he know, the dinner will not be served tonight. Although it starts off as usual – with Chester’s misogynistic crap – so that none of the participants will suspect anything, it is meant to resolve into something neither of them expect.</p>
<p>“Women: can't live with them, can't live without them,” he chortles coarsely, making Candice visibly cringe at the sound. “Isn’t it right, my dear friend?”</p>
<p>“You expect me to say something about words of wisdom?” His eyebrows raise as if anticipating his answer, but even Chester knows better to keep his mouth shut. “Am I right?”</p>
<p>“As usual,” he agrees, which gives Candice an impression that Douglas has to possess some kind of a divine </p>
<p>(or devilish)</p>
<p>ability – Chester never agrees with others just for a simple sake of denying.</p>
<p>“So Clinton’s wifey,” he resumes, not waiting for anyone’s response. He has been dying to discuss this with Douglas, or maybe not discuss since he treats such conversations as one of major ways to express his insights, not to actually listen to the other side’s outlook, which kind of disagrees with the whole idea of debating.</p>
<p>“She has a name,” Candice interrupts him, her words flooded with some kind of venomous indication that he is not yet to catch. “Don’t be afraid of saying it. She’s just a woman, so it doesn’t hold any special powers.”</p>
<p>“Men are talking, my dear,” he sighs, a well-known saying that infuriates her more than anything. “Men are talking, so stop interrupting.”</p>
<p>“I think you should let her speak,” the lawyer implies, a slight, barely noticeable shift in his tone indicating the irritation, which still is not enough for a man like his associate, man who needs a clear and direct statement instead of a blurry implication. </p>
<p>“With all due respect, my dearest friend, I know what’s best for my daughter,” he smirks bitterly. He has never been able to understand Douglas’ attitude towards women – those flimsy creatures inhabiting the men’s world.</p>
<p>“If you say so,” he replies carelessly, still hoping Chester is not planning to bring back Kennedy tonight. Who is he fooling at this point is even beyond his own reasoning – of course he is aiming to disinter the former president from his grave.</p>
<p>“Actually I can’t believe he let her speak in that hotel,” he shakes his head in utter disbelief as if he simply let Douglas’ words slide by. “What a way to ruin your image, such a shame, really. Sometimes I get the impression that our world is overpopulated by fools, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Sure it is,” he snorts, obviously referring to one and only – the Chosen Fool.</p>
<p>“Hope we won’t get another Kennedy,” he chortles again, this time causing the lawyer to frown at the disgusting sound. “I mean, establishing PCSW was a clown act in its purest form. It was like a ticket for women to empower men.”</p>
<p>“If women are so weak, then it shouldn’t concern you this much,” Douglas snorts bitterly, letting him simmer on the sarcastic tingle in his voice for a couple more seconds, before continuing. “Giving them a ‘ticket’ won’t do any harm.”</p>
<p>“C’mon, mate,” Douglas cannot help but roll his eyes at the foolish term. “I bet you don’t even believe in the word you’re saying. You shower me with all those stupid statements simply because of the pressure that society-”</p>
<p>“You want honesty, Chester?” he raises his eyebrows, glaring at him with his signature bitter smirk. “Then let’s play open cards for once, like friends do. First thing you should know is why I haven’t fired your fucking misogynistic ass yet, despite the amount of cases I almost screwed up, thanks to you. Maybe it’s my langsyne, maybe it is what makes me weak, the fact that I couldn’t break the entailments. But you know what? I feel like today is the day to break the fucking entailments, because why not?”</p>
<p>“I-”</p>
<p>“Do not fucking interrupt me right now,” he almost snarls. “You always bitch about Kennedy, anytime we meet. I know that it still torments you very much, but it was years ago, and you’re unable to change anything now. Our society is progressing, and if you don’t get it, then you’re just like an overripe apple amongst those freshly out of an orchard – not rotten yet but already on your way there.”</p>
<p>“Et tu, Brute, contra me?” Chester shakes his head in disbelief, pushing another prim Latin quote between parts of Douglas’ monolog. “After all these years you just brush me off like this, you just-”</p>
<p>“Give me a fucking break with all your Latin quotes,” this time Candice is the one who interrupts, her eyes practically shooting daggers as she gazes into his. “You think that knowing them makes you a smarter person? Whatever, right? It’s not like I care anymore, since arguing with you on this one would be a fucking waste of time, you wouldn’t get it anyway.”</p>
<p>“You fucking ungrateful, bitch,” he snarls, ready to yank her by the collar of her dress and slam her down on the table, which does not get past her attention. “I raised you, I gave you my money, my time, and what you give me in return?”</p>
<p>“Go ahead, hit me, make my fucking day,” she taunts, her gaze piercing and a little wild as if some twisted part of her expected, maybe even anticipated, him to do that, as if it was searching for an excuse to accomplish what was on her mind for quite a while now.</p>
<p>“If you hit her,” he stops, letting him soak over the words, letting them ring in the air for a couple more sinisterly quiet seconds. “I’m gonna fire you, I can assure you that.”</p>
<p>The heavy weight of his words settles upon Chester’s shoulders. He cannot be serious, considering he is referring to a woman, which in turn makes him wonder whether this whole display is connected with something sexual – maybe, just maybe, he pretends to be some kind of a prince charming just because he wants to fuck her. Well, that would make a lot of sense, at least more than any scenario where he actually means what he said, which leads him to another crucial conclusion.</p>
<p>Which opens a door to the reality where he slaps his daughter across the face.</p>
<p>And where she just stares at him with her cheek hot and flushed, and her lip quivering slightly – one of the saddest images Douglas has ever seen. Then she smiles at him – one of the most sinister smiles he has ever seen – and speaks – one of the most purely honest words he has ever heard.</p>
<p>“Good luck for the rest of your life, but I’m fucking outta here, once and for all.”</p>
<p>And then she leaves, just like that, as if nothing ever happened, and he lets him watch her until she disappears in the doorway, before finally fulfilling his promise.</p>
<p>“And I fire you, just like that, because I can,” Douglas flashes him a genuine smirk this time, one of the smuggest he has ever seen settled upon his lips. “And because I’m fed up with you bringing back Kennedy during every fucking meeting.”</p>
<p>“What? I-”</p>
<p>“Just stop talking for at least one goddamn second,” he rubs his aching temples – a gesture Chester has seen him perform more than once at work. “What a fucking relief I won’t be obliged to see your fucking face ever again.”</p>
<p>And then he leaves, just like that, as if nothing ever happened.</p>
<p>* * *	</p>
<p>“Bad life, or just bad day?” She chuckles bitterly, very much aware of the fact that there is only one man here who is be willing to talk to her, and who will not cause any more unnecessary dramas.</p>
<p>“Just bad evening, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Ouch,” her mouth falls open in a mockingly shocked expression. “That was the insult that truly insulted me.”</p>
<p>“Then I’m terribly sorry, darling,” he teases, plopping down on the porch stairs next to her.</p>
<p>“Are you now?”</p>
<p>“And aren’t you cold?” He asks, glancing at her slightly trembling figure. </p>
<p>“My God,” she laughs, throwing her head back. “That’s so cheesy. I mean it’s nice, but still cheesy. It reminds me of those romcoms, where the female gets cold, so the male offers her his jacket and so on, and so on… as if she couldn’t take care of herself.”</p>
<p>He only huffs in response, always annoyed with any kind of rejection.</p>
<p>“Tell me, Dougie,” she silently takes pleasure in the way his jaw tenses at the given nickname. “Are you always this grumpy?”</p>
<p>“I’m just a realist, darling.”</p>
<p>“Being a realist doesn’t necessary mean being grumpy,” she states, raising a challenging eyebrow at him as if waiting for him to fight back.</p>
<p>“Seems like in does, at least since you’ve given me that horrible nickname,” he almost smiles, thinking about how silly it sounds inside his head. “Now tell me, darling. What’s on your mind? What’s bothering you?”</p>
<p>“Everything and nothing at the same time, I guess,” she laughs softly, feeling somehow stupid for exposing this more vulnerable side of her. “Just my father and all of his misogynistic crap, no more no less.”</p>
<p>“That wasn’t very hard to come up with, but anyway, thanks for setting the record straight,” he replies with a sarcastic tingle marking his voice, something he will never be able to fully get rid of, and decides to go against her for once, actually draping the expensive blazer around her shoulders. She shivers at the sudden temperature shift, but takes advantage of the situation in the meantime, secretly inhaling the spicy scent of his aftershave. When she starts to suspect that by any chances he might be a nice person, he adds a new request, unpleasant as always, but not entirely. “Just don’t get any dirt on it, it’s probably more expensive than you can afford.”</p>
<p>“Thank you for informing me, before I got to welter in that mud over there,” she replies with the same, as if perfectly mirrored, sarcastic tingle that annoys him</p>
<p>(gets him going)</p>
<p>more than anything else.</p>
<p>“I mean, let lying dogs sleep, or sleeping dogs lie, or whatever,” she shrugs, laughing softly at the stupid metaphor. “But he doesn’t get it, he never did actually.”</p>
<p>“Sounds more like Chester than anything I’ve ever heard,” he snorts. “I know he can be a little… how to put it correctly… authoritarian?”</p>
<p>“So do you,” she snorts. “But you know what differs him from you?”</p>
<p>“I most certainly do not,” he rolls his eyes. “Enlighten me.”</p>
<p>“I feel like you actually care about what I’m saying,” she stares into the darkness, letting the words flow freely through her lips. “And that you don’t underestimate me because I’m female. I mean, he’s genuinely the only person I know who treats women like this. And I’m forced to cope with him, listen to him telling me college was a waste of time. Where does it even come from? That way of thinking, of processing reality?”</p>
<p>“Most likely he’s been raised this way, and now he’s too old, too close-minded to change,” he ponders, blunt nails scratching over his chin. “I think you should focus on something else, since there’s nothing you can do about this.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” she hesitates for a moment. “How about you help me to focus on something else?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” He frowns, flashing her a confused expression.</p>
<p>“Let’s get out of here, let’s go somewhere,” he notices her eyes flash, and she is glowing, at this particular moment she is glowing, glowing with some kind of a childish excitement. “Just for tonight.”</p>
<p>“For tonight, huh?”</p>
<p>(What about Jane?)</p>
<p>(Jesus, relax, it’s not like I’m planning to cheat on her.)</p>
<p>“Just for tonight, I promise,” she smiles softly. “Dougie, c’mon, live a little.”</p>
<p>C’mon, live a little.</p>
<p>This is the phrase he has heard many times before, from many people, in many places and many occasions. He presumes that by saying this, they all meant something different, maybe it was just a slight shift but still a shift – a source of change. Most of them did not make any advance for him – people say a lot of things, just for the sake of speaking, not signifying anything – but there was that one time he keeps in mind as something important, that one time from the past that has changed everything and nothing at the same time.</p>
<p>And moving back in time never flirts with self-improvement. </p>
<p>“You know what?” He smiles, he genuinely smiles this time, maybe even grins, but that might be a false belief. “Let’s do this.”</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Something tickles her calf, a mere brush on the exposed skin that sends a disturbing tingle through her body, this particular kind of tingle that can be either unpleasant or pleasurable. However, she ignores it, waiting for it to fade away, as she follows him further down the seemingly secluded path. </p>
<p>There has to be something sinister about forests at night. The darkish gleam of moonlight, barely sipping through the canopy layer, leaves most of its parts indiscernible to human’s eye, imposing her to wander in the poorly visible surrounding, where her visual range is rather scarce. These blurred shadows casted by the conifers, overlapping into something that causes shivers to run down her spine. Nevertheless, there is some kind of sacred beauty within it, the one that is yet to be discovered, the one that is not within her reach.</p>
<p>What seems to be within her reach is the decaying tree line and the shiny water below with a tiny, barely noticeable glimpse of sun bashfully popping out of ocean’s surface. <br/>“This is a nice sight,” she notes with a small smile lacing her lips as he stretches his arm towards her – a hint for her to grab it as she jumps down on the sandy surface. His skin is cool to touch, since he has decided to leave the blazer in his car and roll up the sleeves of his shirt – “they’re too expensive to get any dirt on them,” was what he said as he was doing so.</p>
<p>“Indeed it is,” he murmured more to himself than to her, mindlessly enlacing their arms together, as they walk down to the water.<br/>Why has he even brought her here in the first place?</p>
<p>Because he misses the past – that is why he has brought her here.</p>
<p>Because he misses the college days.</p>
<p>Because he misses the way things used to be before the broadcast of An Evening with Fred Astaire.</p>
<p>Sometimes he wishes he has never met Jane. She has changed him in the ways he has never wanted to change – she is the source of shifts, the force that drags him over an itchy carpet until he decides to succumb for his own good and pretend that he is interested in her tales about any mundane things she was doing through the day. He has never been able to understand why she stays at home instead of working, since he could easily hire a maid to fill in her place, but any time he had brought up that topic, she refused.</p>
<p>Furthermore, she limits him in the ways he does not want to be limited. He finds it utterly infuriating, the fact that all factors which seem to play the crucial part in her life are stability, domesticity, or routine, and of course there is some kind of beauty in all of them, but he has always thought that by doing so she deprives herself from any other benefits that come with life. It wearies him, her attitude wearies him, bores him to the nth degree, and all he craves for is a little bit of variability in life.</p>
<p>As he is standing here, on the sandy beach, he cannot even recall why he proposed to her right after the graduation. Maybe he should have ignored An Evening with Fred Astaire, move on with his life and forget about her, but for some unknown reasons he did right the opposite.</p>
<p>Jane is the most benignant and compassionate person he has ever encountered. It has never ceased to amaze him how she puts others before herself, how other people’s problems upsets her, how she offers them emotional reassurance, a shoulder to cry on whenever it is necessary.</p>
<p>Why is it not enough for him?</p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p>“When you look at the sky, what does it tell you?” She asks as soon as she catches him staring at the gradually vanishing stars, snapping him out of the trance.</p>
<p>“What does it tell me, huh?” He repeats, scratching his chin with his free hand. “The sky confirms my belief that our lives are somehow meaningless, if we compare it to the vastness of the universe, and yet they’re everything we have.”</p>
<p>“Fair enough,” she nods softly. “But when I look at the sky, it gives me hope, hope that we’re never alone, that we won’t be alone until the last star is burning. I’ve read once that stars are supposed to resemble hope, tranquility, just like swallows do… and sometimes it makes me feel like it all makes sense, at least this is what lightens my life… and this is meaningful.”</p>
<p>“Is this why you carry one of them around your neck?”</p>
<p>“I know the answer will be disappointingly obvious for you,” she smiles merely as her fingertips brush over the metallic lavaliere. “But yes, I carry a swallow around my neck because of that.”</p>
<p>“Surprisingly, it’s not as disappointing as I thought it would be,” she notices the corners of his lips quiver slightly as if he was just about to smiles but never did. “Trust me, I’ve heard far worse.”</p>
<p>“Like what?”</p>
<p>“Are you sure you want an example?”</p>
<p>“No,” she hesitates for a split second, a split second she need to quickly reconsider what has been on her mind since they sat on the porch stairs together. “But you know what I want?”</p>
<p>“What do you want?”</p>
<p>He already expects one certain kind of answer, and yet, as far as he is concerned, it is not going to disappoint him.</p>
<p>However, her answers is everything but verbal.</p>
<p>Her answer consists of a kiss – a simple, classic, chaste kiss that makes his lips tingle as hers brush them softly – just a mere stroke, and yet this is all it takes for him to fall, to throw all his insecurities out of the window, to forget Jane and all the women before. </p>
<p>His hands find their place on the dip of her waist, squeezing the soft flesh, as his palms cradle the sides of her ribcage. Her lips part subtly in response, a soft moan slipping past them, as he teases the side of her breast mindlessly, fingers fiddling with the silky fabric of her dress. It feels nice to touch someone like this again, to share this particular human contact – sweet yet laced with a hint of lust that threatens to soak through the cloth of decency, which he is planning to avoid.</p>
<p>At least on the exposed beach.</p>
<p>“Wait, wait, wait,” he chuckles, like genuinely chuckles, between the kisses, gently pushing her away. “Let’s take it somewhere else. You know, I’ve seen that motel down the road and-”</p>
<p>“No,” she shakes her head softly, staring at him with some kind of pensive awareness. “Because you’re gonna change your mind.”</p>
<p>“Trust me, I’m not.”</p>
<p>And yet, for some unknown reasons she does not trust him.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>The motel’s name is Burning Giraffe, and she gets the impression that it would sound weird, if she said it aloud. Maybe because the place itself looks as if it was from a different reality, as if it was something she was never supposed to come across but she has anyway.</p>
<p>Everything seems to be on its appointed spot and yet it still look out of place</p>
<p>(Time),</p>
<p>especially the giraffe neon – its sinister reddish gleam reminds her of something malicious, evil, something that is not meant to be discover, something that was never supposed to appear in any parallel reality. But it has anyway, and because of some abnormal turn of events she is here to witness it, which is most likely not a good thing.</p>
<p>All motels seems to feed on sins, on wicked, salacious behavior of equally wicked, salacious people. This place is no different, that is for sure, but underneath all of these lays something else – a source of everything nefarious and malevolent, yet alluring and enticing in its sinful form.</p>
<p>Hypnotizing like a soft click of the lock reverberating in the air, like a quiet creak of the door – genesis of their shared damnation.</p>
<p>She senses his looming presence behind, his diffusing body heat causes her to shiver in acknowledgment to her own feverish hotness that tickles over her nerves as if opening a gate to some delusional place of eternal bliss. Hearing the door shut, she turns to face him, his face bathed in ominous light, sharp cheekbones enhanced by its crimson gleam.</p>
<p>“Strip,” he demands gruffly as if taunting her to evade, but she decides to deprave him of this pleasure, to dance to his tune for now. She unzips her dress, tugging the zipper as low as her arms allow to, and lets the garment fall down her arms, silky fabric pooling around her feet. The act itself remains surprisingly graceful until she steps out of the ring and kicks off her shoes – way to ruin the impression, but Candice is not a woman who would shy away because of such a stupid reason.</p>
<p>“The rest too,” his voice still sounds a tad horse, but the stern cadence is long gone as if he was somewhere else, taking to someone else,</p>
<p>(your little Giraffe Motel poses the ability to attract distant memories)</p>
<p>(huh?)</p>
<p>(it feeds on them, it needs them to endure, remain here in its advanced form).</p>
<p>So she takes the rest of too, breasts spilling from the confinement of her brassiere, panties rolling down her smooth thighs only to drop on the floor with a nonexistent thud. He remains fully clothed – of course – while she stands stark-naked in front of him, her skin pricking with goosebumps, as his gaze rakes over her bare form. She looks sinful, bathed in the red gleam, as if she was meant to become his eternal damnation, his inevitable end that creeps closer and closer with every step she takes. </p>
<p>She is twenty six, his conscience scolds him, its voice laced with utter indignation towards the action he is about to perform.</p>
<p>But she is twenty six, he almost shivers at the lecherous purr of his own voice, whispering lewd phrases into his ear.</p>
<p>While Douglas is a lawyer, a stern man who tolerates no disobedience, who creates his own set of rather socially bankrupt rules only to follow them and crack any case, he is just a man too, and most men do not poses the immunity for stark-naked women.</p>
<p>So he does the only reasonable think for his blasé mind right now – with two long steps and a harsh push he pins her to the wall, bodies flush against each other as their teeth clash in a feverish bruising kiss. He pulls on her plush bottom lip, biting hard enough to break the tender flesh, and in this peculiar moment she considers whether he might get off on her mewls. </p>
<p>Soon enough he allays the doubt, a brisk swipe of his tongue against her bottom lip and a hint of cooper lingering on her taste buds prove it well enough. It is like an unspoken agreement between the two of them – pleasure that mingles with pain, and both of them conceive it to the point where it is possible to remain nonverbal.</p>
<p>She should have known better, since they met for the first time, what kind of man he is, that kind of man who would be meaning to break her just to hear her desperate pleads – a rare, maybe even extinct sight, in terms of Candice. Some twisted part of her brain is willing to see how far he is planning to push in order to accomplish the goal of shoving her past the personal breaking point. </p>
<p>“What should I do to you, sweetheart?” He inquires, speaking more to himself then to her, his fingers dancing over her exposed cleavage, skipping past the tops of her breasts. He twists one of the hardening peaks, maneuvering it between the pads of his fingers, before he tugs it sharply, eliciting a quiet gasp from her slightly parted lips.</p>
<p>“Taste me,” she taunts, both eyes and voice laced with a smoking hint of lust – a hint dedicated to him and only him. She mindlessly arches to his touch as his hands stroke down the length of her body, brazenly kneading her breasts as he makes his way to the floor.</p>
<p>He kneels in front of her, his movements slow but deliberate, a sly smirk playing upon his lips as he watches her thighs quiver slightly. He would be lying, if he said it does not fuel his pride, seeing her fall apart, piece by piece, her tough demeanor unravelling as soon as he grips her hips, the smell of her sex makes him throb in way that is equally pleasant and disturbing.</p>
<p>She is going to taste divine, he already knows that.</p>
<p>Douglas has always enjoyed going down on women. There is something about the power he holds over them during this peculiar act, the way they squirm underneath soft but firm pressure of his mouth, how he coaxes them to open their legs with sweet promises of an unforgettable experience, how they are willing to do anything he wants right after their worlds shatter into pieces. </p>
<p>And besides, he has really missed it since he got married.</p>
<p>He grips one of her thighs and she gasps softly, his touch leaving her skin tingling in the most exquisite ways. He orders the brunette to hoist it up his shoulder, pinning her to the wall, trying to gain some more leverage. She whimpers softly at the unpleasant sensation of wallpaper’s porous texture, which becomes long forgotten as his lips find their place between her legs.</p>
<p>Sweet kisses on her thighs, almost too sweet for a man like Douglas, as his lips gently tickle her tender skin. A few seconds pass before she allows herself to lean into the sensation, her eyelids falling shut, shivering as his tongue glides over her heated flesh. His cool hands feel like heaven on her overheated skin, soothing the burning of her sinful agony, despite the protruding sting of his nails digging into her outer thigh. </p>
<p>However, what comprehensively brings her back to reality after those few carefree moments, is a harsh nip that causes a shrill tingle of pain to lick over the nerves, but also increases the itchy throbbing of her clit. When their eyes meet, she gets the notion that he looks a way too smug, his teeth remarkably straight and astonishingly white which gives her the impression that he had to whiten them at some point of his life. </p>
<p>He glares at her, cocking a mere sardonic eyebrow that infuriates her</p>
<p>(gets her going)</p>
<p>more than anything else. If he asks her to beg, she will much likely slap him across the face, which makes her even more surprised when she hears his answer.</p>
<p>“Touch me, or I’ll fucking-”</p>
<p>“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head in disapproval. “Say ‘please’.”</p>
<p>“Douglas, I swear I’ll-”</p>
<p>“Say ‘please’,” he murmurs against her skin, a mere tip of his tongue pressing against her quivering entrance as if he wanted to give her a taste for what is about to come but not any real relief.</p>
<p>“You’re such a fucking-”</p>
<p>“Tease? Asshole? Jerk?” He gauges with amusement. “C’mon darling, it’s not that hard.”</p>
<p>“Fucking fine,” she sighs, in one hand considering the act of begging itself to be humiliating but in other hand he has brought her to the point where she is too desperate to care. “Please touch me before I bite your dick off.”</p>
<p>“Was it that hard?” He asks rhetorically, deciding to ignore the sarcastic tingle of her voice and the mocking promise. Since she could make an exception for him, he can undoubtedly return the favor, he can and he will.</p>
<p>She moans in relief, pretty sure he feels her throbbing, as he licks a broad stripe down her folds, shunning the tingling nub on purpose. He smirks against her flesh, somehow amused by her reaction – a frustrated huff followed by another breathless gasp of his name. The sensation is ticklish, barely there to feel, all wrong considering the sticky wetness covering her inner thighs. </p>
<p>She feels beyond desperate for more, her dainty form quivering slightly, cadenced with the throbs of her swollen clit, mingled with the prickly sensation of her nails digging crescent shapes in her skin. In addiction he looks rapt, absolutely entranced, with dilated pupils, the cavernous ebony of his pupils almost swallowing the icy blue, as he gazes into her eyes. For a brief moment she catches a glimpse of something almost maniac, something that might concern her, unless he envelopes her tingling bundle with his greedy mouth.</p>
<p>Her ears prick at the high-pitched squeal, sound that is entirely foreign for her, until she realizes it has been released past her trembling lips just seconds prior. His grasp around her thigh emphatically tightens, drawing a sinful cry from her constricted throat, mauve bruises already forming beneath his fingers. In response to the harsh gesture, she grabs him by the hair, barely noticing hints of whatever hair product he uses coat her fingers, her hips rolling unwittingly. She can hardly keep an upright posture at this point as he slowly devours her, the agonizing pace that causes her to tug at the strands hard enough to make him groan against her sensitive bud. </p>
<p>As the time passes, his movements become a way more expeditious, brazen even, to the point where she aches to scoot away, escaping from his touch, but he holds her steady, preventing any excess writhing. However, her whole body jerks in one rapid motion in time with a gentle prod of his tongue against her entrance. She nods, already short of breath, her hips unconsciously grinding against his mouth, desperate for him to fill her in any way he pleases.</p>
<p>“Say that you want it,” he growls, the animalistic hoarseness of his voice causes her to shiver in his grasp, but she remains silent, no words slipping past her trembling lips. He nips at her folds, drawing another pained squeal out of her throat. “Fucking say it.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I want it,” she pushes past the inability to form any coherent sentences, her approval coming as a trembling whine that makes him twitch within the confinement of his pants.</p>
<p>“How badly?” He inquires, forcing her blasé brain to come out with another response, while he seems to suck it right through her pussy.</p>
<p>“Badly,” her response is muddled but her gestures exigent – hips bucking on their own, seeking for more stimulation. </p>
<p>“Badly, huh?” He teases, right before the tip of his tongue delves inside, drawing a salacious purr that turns into a moan as soon as he begins to move. His thrusts are erratic, relentless as if he was starving and she was his meal, lacking in any kind of rhythm, in any kind of cadence. He laps at her with obscenely loud slurps as if driven by some sort of carnal lust, insatiable, desperate for more, and she keens with pleasure, messily grinding against his mouth, willing to take anything he offers.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, there is something feral in the way he eyes her, shallow exhales billowing upon her heated flesh, and she cannot help but wonder how is he able to breath with his nose practically mashed against her clit. All of sudden, another wave of heat washes through her dainty body, breaking her poor reverie, licking over her nerves with this peculiar pre-orgasmic fiber of pleasure. It is harsh, rapid, ravenous, and she is drowning in it, so, so close to the blink.</p>
<p>And then it happens – the fall, with a mere scrape of his teeth, applied in just the right way, he pushes her over the edge. She moans vaguely, incoherent chain of words slipping past her lips, some of them consisting of odd variations of his name, while others – not so much. As her high subsides, she tries to push him away but he ignores her attempts, shamelessly drinking up any traces of her arousal, humming pleasantly at the musky taste lingering upon his tongue.</p>
<p>“Stop, please,” she whimpers pitifully, tugging at the darkish strands to discard his face from its place between her now quivering thighs. “Too much.”</p>
<p>Uncommonly and much to her surprise, he obeys, no words added, no vexing remarks, just a reticent rise from the previous kneeling position. She backs away, even if for a one little step – innate response for his now towering position. She has never bothered to notice how tall he is, comparing to her, and although she is not very short herself, she finds him utterly intimidating, gazing at her with features framed by the crimson neon.</p>
<p>She approaches the bed at his nonverbal command – a simple shift of his eyes towards the mattress – and plops down onto the coarse sheets, propping herself on the elbows to watch his movements with silent intent. He clearly takes his time, much to her exasperation, removing the pieces one by one, nimble fingers dancing over various expensive fabrics that cover his lengthy frame. He discards them onto the armchair one by one as she keeps staring, her gaze fixated on the unveiled bare skin. Maybe it is impolite to stare, but she cannot help herself, driven by some kind of a burning need to memorize everything about his appearance, all the little details that are poking her eyes as if they craved for her undivided attention.</p>
<p>Maybe they do.</p>
<p>“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he jeers</p>
<p>(he is nothing but right)	</p>
<p>with a subtle yet mean cadence lacing his voice in a tight knot that seems to clench around her throat, retrieving any ability to fight back.<br/>Instead she bestows him with a different kind of response, with a simple gesture of drawing her legs apart, even if for the slightest bit, but still enough for him to pick up a hint. </p>
<p>He looks painfully hard, feels heavy and hot against her slick thigh as he settles between her spread legs, accidently nudging her clit. Her hips buck instinctively at the jarring stab of pleasure, already craving for more friction, but he simply retreats with the same blatant amusement as a few minutes prior glimmering in his eyes. </p>
<p>However, she does right the opposite, pushing him away in order to switch their positions, but fails completely as he snaps out of her grasp in an unnervingly swift movement, preventively pinning both of her wrists above the head. She is about to writhe away from the docile position he has put her into, when all of sudden he thrusts into her with a low groan – an action that is followed by another sharp cry, undeniable reason of the painful intrusion. He does not seem to care, or maybe this is just his unique Art of Fucking, claiming her with rough shoves that send her to the pinnacle of incoherence, that leave her torn between pleading him to slow down, or begging for more.</p>
<p>He is everything but gentle, his movement deliberately rough, but the jarring stab of pain only fuels her pleasure, contrasting yet mingling together so perfectly. It brings her to the point of inevitable contemplation whether he is doing it just to see if he can break her.</p>
<p>Who is she trying to fool? Of course he is.</p>
<p>Her fleeting conclusion becomes long forgotten as soon as his hands release her now sore wrists only to wrap around her throat a brief moment later. Although he refrains from choking her, his grip is firm as if he was meaning to indicate some kind of a threat, as if he was trying to tame her. She swallows hard, staring into his eyes with fazed look upon her flushed face, but it does not seem to scatter his concentration if not the opposite. His brows are knitted slightly, eyes wide open and awake, lean body bathed in the sinful crimson, forming an image that is meant to invade most of her dreams in the following years.</p>
<p>Her newly released hands rest upon his shoulders – an attempt to steady her jerking body, to anchor herself to passing reality with a firm grip around his rounded muscles. It feels good to be able to touch him, to squeeze his heated flesh in time with the rapid thrusts as if she intended to distract him with the oddly soft gesture. She is unusually close by now, so close that she can almost taste it, her stomach coiling with unbridled desperate excitement, her hips bucking half-consciously to match his movements, the willpower to savor the moment lost somewhere between pulsing waves of heat. Her back arch from the mattress, her eyes shut, ready to savor the upcoming bliss, and then, all of sudden, he simply halts, making her whine in utter frustration. </p>
<p>“Really?” He chuckles, his features marked with an expression of blatant amusement that infuriates her almost as much as his denial. “You thought I would let you cum that quickly? Then you clearly underestimate me, darling, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>“I think you’re a fucking sadist,” she hisses, frustrated with the rejection, her body burning with the need for release, stomach coiling disturbingly. He is most likely to punish her for the mean remark, but she finds herself not caring for the slightest at this point. </p>
<p>“Fucking sadist…” he mutters under his breath as if he was considering the sincere meaning of her confession. She shivers at the disturbingly soft manner of the spoken words, and yet decides to overstep her boundaries once more, to test him, to see if she can be the one who breaks him for a change.</p>
<p>“You know what? ” She inquires with a mischievous glint in her sapphire colored eyes, the distinctive hue temporary latent by the crimson light. “I bet your wifey doesn’t let you fuck her like this.” </p>
<p>“And yet, I bet you envy her anyway,” he jeers, tightening his grip around her throat, forcing a choked moan out of her constricted windpipe. </p>
<p>She definitely should not have said that.</p>
<p>I definitely shouldn’t have said that, she thinks, shivering as he eyes her dainty form with some kind of unsettling malevolence dancing in his icy irises, now fierce with passion. She stares at him, her chest rising and falling in time with every sharp breath she takes, pretty much aware that irking him is equal with playing with fire. </p>
<p>Maybe she wants to get burned.</p>
<p>He finds another steady rhythm, slower than before, but still deep enough to repetitively nudge her g-spot. She lets out a weak moan in response, her legs wrapping around his waist in search for a different angle, nails digging painfully into his shoulders</p>
<p>(she wants to hurt him),</p>
<p>drawing a hoarse groan out of him. She clenches around him purposely, already close to the blink due to both of the previous and the ongoing stimulation, somehow desperate to see him fall apart. His head drops to the junction where her neck meets the shoulder, teeth nibbling at the skin to muffle the innate sounds threatening to slip past his lips, when suddenly, completely out of blue… he stops again.</p>
<p>And again.</p>
<p>And again.</p>
<p>And maybe once more, it is hard to tell since her perception is rather poor, considering, give or take, four nearly schematic sequences of bliss and denial.</p>
<p>“Please, please, please, I- I-” she sobs helplessly, her insides aching to the point where she is willing to make any exception for him if that will guarantee her the much needed gratification. “Let me cum, I need to cum.” </p>
<p>“I don’t think you’ve earned it, sweetheart,” he counters despite his obvious inner struggle, still grazing the swollen nub with reticent strokes of his thumb – a refined action that leaves her writhing below him, burning for release.</p>
<p>“I don’t care,” she whimpers desperately, at the blink of tears. “Please, let me.”</p>
<p>And so he lets her, he lets her because she clearly had enough</p>
<p>(she is not the only one),</p>
<p>angling his hips just right to push her over the edge. She screams, although she is unable to hear it, her senses remain somehow muted as it washes over her, wave after wave, her body tossing and turning, nails raking fiercely down his back</p>
<p>(crimson nails in crimson neon),</p>
<p>unconsciously drawing blood, which elicits another pained groan out of him. All of these little sensations showering her trembling body, from the pulsing of her core to the tingling of her clit, immerse Candice to the point she is barely aware of what comes next.</p>
<p>(the unawareness has always been a blessing)</p>
<p>With a last snap of his hips, last throaty groan, last squeeze of her bruised flesh, he comes, his movements halting as the bliss washes over him, blacking out his vision for a mere second, all while he is shivering in her arms with rapid aftershocks. It takes him a few longer moments to come to his senses, pull out (“Jesus Fucking Christ, Douglas!”) and roll over onto his back.</p>
<p>The aftermath is always weird, nothing has changed in that matter, but today it has been enriched with something else, something that he has not experience in quite a long time, if ever, something that allows itself to be describe as bittersweet, and yet he has no idea how to call it. Melancholy? Is it melancholy? Maybe, maybe not. Nevertheless, as a coping mechanism with the so-called ‘melancholy’, he drapes one forearm over his eyes, shielding himself from the debauchery of the crimson light, from the debauchery of his deed. </p>
<p>Why does he have to keep doing this?</p>
<p>And why does it have hurt so much tonight?</p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p>(World is an empty place.)</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>“Check the mail, darling, will you?” He asks, unusually preoccupied with cutting the vegetables. To her it seems like he might have finally found out what his true and only passion is, or maybe she just gets that kind of an impression, because she is acting like a geek again.</p>
<p>The second one.</p>
<p>“I will,” she agrees, mindlessly staring at the porch. Today seems to be one of these days when her mind leaves its body to travel to places that she wishes she could visit instead.</p>
<p>“By the way we have to finally take care of seating our guests in proper spots,” he reminds, much to her annoyance. “I feel like your father shouldn’t sit with Tammy, otherwise they’ll eat each other alive. No offence, but you know how triggered she gets with all of his chauvinistic crap.”</p>
<p>“Yeah whatever,” she replies with a careless shrug, suddenly filled with a burning need to collect any possible letters.</p>
<p>And so she does, stepping out of the house, all the way down the driveway to reach the mailbox – a simple routine that she normally hates, apart from all of the times when James decides to ask her a question connected with the organization of their Big Event. Today’s mail is supposed to be just an ordinary mail – no letters, because who would bother to send them if he can replace any papers with an email? Despite the obvious reasonability of this fact, James feels some kind of need, apparently determined by internal factors, to check it anyway. </p>
<p>However, today something catches her attention – a bouquet of dead flowers tied with an elegant velvet ribbon along with a small card attached to it, filled with equality elegant handwriting.</p>
<p>~Happy Wedding Day~</p>
<p>All of sudden, she laughs, cackling a laugh that is jarring, bone-chilling, and almost maniac, foreign even for her. It cuts through the peaceful silence of a plain Sunday morning like a metaphorical knife through the mist, mist that has been clouding her life since the Giraffe Night, that has been floating back and forth as if waiting for her to finally loose the last bits of sanity she has been so unwearyingly holding onto. </p>
<p>Of course, Dead Flowers. How sweet of him.</p>
<p>“What’s going on honey?” James asks from the threshold, probably lured by her sick cackle, his worried voice breaking her reverie. </p>
<p>“Nothing,” she replies mindlessly, staring at the gift with a small, bittersweet smile. There are some days when she really misses him. </p>
<p>Her mother was right and she was right, that day when he left her.</p>
<p>World is truly an empty place.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Created: 02/24/20<br/>Completed: 04/18/20<br/>Edited: 04/20/20</p></blockquote></div></div>
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